


Empire Theory: The Asset

by ithedevil



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Tides of Man (Band)
Genre: Brainwashing, Character Study, Gen, Past Torture, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Song Lyrics, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 05:38:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17360051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ithedevil/pseuds/ithedevil
Summary: character studies of the winter soldier. each study corresponds to a song off of the album Empire Theory by Tides of Man.





	Empire Theory: The Asset

Dreams.

I heard one of my Handlers mention them before. When I asked, he told me that dreams were things you saw while you were asleep.

I only know asleep and awake. I was asleep and now I am awake. There was no yesterday, nothing before I woke up. I am told about everything, the entire world, my purpose, upon waking. (I am told why I am awake.) Everything I know before they brief me must be a dream, then.

Being told about dreams, knowing about dreams is a dream in itself.

 

_This one doesn't cry like the others._  
_Take his vital signs and_  
_Medicate him._

_This one’s hopes won't die like the others’._  
_Throw him in the hole and_  
_Sedate him._

 

I wake up, the smell of carbolic barraging my senses. I feel the needles in my skin, and my eyes flit back and forth, between my wrists, arms, searching for the glints of steel. There are no needles, yet I am given an eyeful of metal where the flesh of my left arm is missing. Ignoring the men standing around the room, men I somehow know to be my Handlers, I inhale deeply and smell only musk, sweat, and piss.

A dream, then. The smell of military hospitals and pricks of needles in my skin were those of dreams.

I’ve been told by my Handlers that I am special. Maybe I’m special because of my dreams. I don’t know how I recognize the smell of carbolic soap, or how I know what needles in my skin feel like. I am born anew every time I wake, but my dreams make me feel like I have lived a thousand lifetimes before this one. Gabe once told me about some woman he knew who believed in reincarnation. I didn’t believe in it at the time, but I think I do now. Sleep and awaken, over and over.

Who’s Gabe?

  
_As I enter this former sanctuary,_  
_My bones don't feel like they felt_  
_When I knew they were in my own skin,_

_When I was still a man._

 

I’m always stiff when I wake up. (Always?) Every joint linking my vertebrae pops, clicks when I move, when I tilt my head, left, right.

I feel like I’ve been dead, but it doesn’t feel like I’ve been reborn. I thought being reborn was supposed to be beautiful, some explosion or flame. Even blistering, blossoming pain seems more appropriate than feeling like a pile of bones being rearticulated, into a skeleton, a ghost of a human being, for examination, for use.

It always feels like something’s missing. (Always?)

 

_I'd be a liar If I said I was telling the truth_  
_half the time, I keep it locked inside,_  
_Under a pile of smiles and deceit,_  
_I will thrive._

 

I have dreams of being “wiped,” as the Handlers call it. Of the chair, of gags, of restraints, and of screaming. Those dreams are the most in number; I can’t seem to forget them. It feels like they’ve been seared into my clenched jaw, my aching muscles. Burned into my head, the pressure consuming, demanding attention. I can’t dream sometimes because I can’t get out of those nightmares.

Wipes are the most vivid dreams; I only get other dreams in flashes, ephemeral.

I don’t tell my Handlers about these dreams, any of them. I don’t assume the dreams are truth. They’re just side effects. Every time I awaken, I listen, comply. I’m fed new information that doesn’t feel new. It’s not new because I had dreamt of being told before, in my sleep. Maybe I’m special because my dreams show me the future.

 

_I will die an honest man._

 

I’m a dreamer.


End file.
